


A Day Off

by Aithilin



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Fluff, M/M, Older Characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-01
Updated: 2019-01-01
Packaged: 2019-10-01 18:12:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17249015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aithilin/pseuds/Aithilin
Summary: It had been ages since Regis let himself have a morning off. Now that he has one, he intends to make the best of it.





	A Day Off

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Shiary](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shiary/gifts).



When they were young, it was easier to have these sorts of days. It was easier to shirk a day of responsibilities and disappear into the depths of the sprawling city. It was easier then, when all attention was on the Crown and the war and the fretting, wringing hands of the nobility still struggling to accept that the King needed to withdraw portions of the Wall away from their allies. When all the talk in the Citadel was upcoming diplomatic talks, upcoming visits to the front lines of the war, upcoming armies and clashes and the skirmishes they tried so desperately to keep from the media. 

It was easy— back then, when they were young and restless and headstrong— to slip away from the chaos of the Citadel for some quiet moments. 

“I’ve missed this.”

“I’m sure you have.”

It had been ages since they’ve watched the slow crawl of sunlight across the plush carpets of a bedroom floor. Since they were tangled together like this, warm in the depths of winter, the taste of Solstice wines stale on the back of their tongues. 

Since Regis could lean back against Clarus’ much stronger form now, having aged much better through the years. 

“How’s your leg?”

“Fine.”

“Bullshit.” Regis glanced back to the unrepentant Shield smirking at him now. Who offered a shrug in mock apology; “Bullshit, majesty?”

“That’s a new one.”

“No it’s not.”

“It’s been a while, then.”

“A few weeks.”

The crown was safely tucked away, displayed in his dressing room in a place of honour no one would ever see. The chains and trappings of the throne carefully hung away for another hour, another day. Their clothes, the ceremonial dress and uniforms and heavy burdens lay where they were thrown the night before (the early hours of the morning), and the doors of the inner chambers of the King’s rooms locked to everyone. ‘To spare the shock to the staff’ Clarus would say. 

Regis rested. 

Settled against Clarus as if they had been molded together, fit together so perfectly through the years— despite duties and transgressions and expectations, they always would fit together. Slotted and tangled and tied together, as Clarus’ far more callused hands eased and soothed the aches and pains of the throne from his King. As the King lay back, trusting, trusted, and calmer than he had been outside of the doors. 

The staff moved beyond the locked doors. Trays delivered and set out— covered by domes of silver and steel, as if Regis cared how his breakfast was displayed. They listened for the trolley wheels, the footsteps, the careful movement beyond the heavy wood and gilded metal barriers. Clarus smiled, and held a finger to his lips, as if it was a game; as if anyone hired by the elder Scientia would be anything other than discreet and respectful. 

But it was fun to pretend. 

Like when they were young. When they were stealing through the Citadel halls after the longest night of the year, staggering and laughing from the warmth of the drinks. When they were struggling to keep hands to themselves, and neither had the aches they carried now. 

Two idiots stumbling through royal hallways, lost in touches and kisses and to each other, as portraits of sterner kings and queens stared down their immortal disapproval. Regis had resolved— one drunken, New Year’s Night— to never be as they perceived those paintings. Clarus had only laughed and dragged him to bed, while they rung in the new year with more vigour than they could ever hope to replicate now. 

Now, Regis rested. 

The Ring— the shard of Crystal and power, begging to be reunited with its source ever since the Draconian struck the piece from the gaping maw of the damned thing— was set aside, like the Crown. The burden of it, the voice of it, eased from him for a few hours. For a morning. He knew where it was, he would always know. Once worn, the soul belonged to the hated piece of divine crystal.

But it was set aside, and Clarus’ hand was on his own, warm and strong. He felt the patterns Clarus traced along his hand, his wrist, his arm. And smiled. 

“Think they’re gone?”

“We should wait a while longer, to be sure.”

“Ah,” Regis smiled, eyes closed against the morning light; “I’ll trust your Shield’s instinct.”

“About damned time you did. Only took you forty years.”

“Thirty-eight.”

“And it took you six months to agree to a day off.”

“A king’s work never rests.”

“But a king can, you stubborn bastard.”

Regis turned in bed, the blankets coiling around them, trapping them that much tighter in the warm snare of a lazy holiday morning. “Is that how you address your king?”

Clarus’ grin echoed his own, and the kiss was expected, anticipated. “It’s how I talk to you.”


End file.
